


Drain

by Smaragdina



Series: Into the Light [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragdina/pseuds/Smaragdina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Corvo looks at the tub, and the towels, and he checks the lock on the door (again) (and again) (it’s sturdy, but he checks it again). And he looks at the mirror." Character study piece. Corvo is out of prison. This does not mean that he is OUT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drain

**Author's Note:**

> It is absolutely not necessary to read "Light-Blind" before this story.

The boat scrapes against the stone steps when it arrives. The sound is harsh and jarring and just enough like metal door-locks on stone walls that it makes Corvo _jump_ , huddle back against the side of the boat, borrowed blanket clutched tight around him and hand under the blanket clutched tight around his new sword.

Samuel doesn’t notice. Or is at least kind enough to pretend not to.

(The man had asked him – once he’d talked Corvo into the boat and taken him a ways out in the river and _not_ commented on the fact that Corvo still hadn’t sheathed his sword – if he would prefer silence or chatter. Corvo wished for the former and asked for the latter. Chatter kept him awake, kept him from nodding off and leaving himself vulnerable, kept his mind occupied instead of running off too far ahead toward horrible possibilities. By now, at the docks of this place called the Hound Pits, Corvo has been filled in on all the doings and the ruin of the city in the past six months. None of it is good. None of it is things he truly wanted to know, and _none_ of it seems real. He hasn’t spoken three words).

The docks are deserted. The afternoon light is spare and thin on the peeling posters, the tin walls. It’s very quiet. Corvo doesn’t like it; he doesn’t like any of this. His gaze flicks around. Someone could be hiding up on the catwalk _there_ , crouched down; there could be attackers in the bulrushes _there_ ; there could be an entire _army_ hiding just out of sight around the corner at the top of the steps –

“I suppose,” says Samuel quietly, casually, “that you’ll be wanting to get cleaned up and fed before you meet Havelock and the others.”

Corvo nods.

He unwraps Samuel’s blanket from around his shoulders and hands it to him, because if Samuel reached for it himself Corvo knows that he would _flinch_ , and he _hates_ that he would flinch. And there’s exhaustion aching through his every bone and he’s too tired to notice or hate, even, that it never occurs to him to sheathe the sword.

*****

He drinks at least four cups of water and doesn’t dare try food. Not yet. Samuel had offered him some on the boat, simple things, bread, apples, and Corvo had eaten only a little despite the way he had desperately wanted _all_ of it. Prison food was bad, prison food was flavorless, and prison food also often _didn’t come_ – and after three days in the sewer and six months of half-starvation he knows, and wishes he didn’t, how well he _won’t_ be able to keep things down.

There are lots of things he wishes he didn’t know.

(He will need to start training tomorrow or tonight, start finding out _exactly_ how far gone he is, and the thought is a cool twist of dread in his stomach).

He finds himself counting exits in the common room of the pub. Then, windows (those are exits too, and entrances). Then windowpanes. It’s only when he’s progressed to _floorboards_ that he remembers counting the drips of water from the ceiling of his cell, and stops himself.

He can’t stop himself.

He _can’t relax_.

He’s standing in the farthest corner of the room with his back to the wall, but he can’t quite see all the exits from here, and it _frightens_ him that he can’t quite see all the exits, and his hand on the fifth glass of water shakes a little and it frightens him how thin that hand is, too. And he can hear voices from up the stairs. At least three of them. No. More?

_Give it a rest, Piero, Samuel said there weren’t any injuries that couldn’t wait –_

**_You_ ** _get to scrub the tub out later –_

_Quiet down, he’ll think we’re spying –_

_Well we **are** spying –_

_Poor man –_

Corvo finds himself pacing. Back and forth. Then in a rectangle. Thirteen steps by three-and-a-half. The exact dimensions of his cell; if he closes his eyes he can still see it around him. He’s out, he’s _out_ , but he counts each exit as he turns and the fact that he has to turn means that threats can come from _all_ sides now instead of just in through the door, there are people watching him from upstairs like he’s a caged animal and his hand keeps falling back to the hilt of his sword because he can hardly believe it’s _there_. He can’t shake the thought that he _needs_ it. The coldness in his stomach is part dread, and part queasy rebelling against food and water, and part –

He’s out. But if he closes his eyes he has to snap them open again because he doesn’t know what’s _coming,_ because in prison everything had been close and regulated and he’s _not_ out, he can’t relax, he’s not safe, not really, not at all.

*****

There is a tub, and there is a faucet, and when he turns the faucet the tub will fill with water that will be so hot it steams. There are towels, and for the moment they are white. There is a mirror. There is a lock on the door. These are such simple, simple things.

Corvo looks at the tub, and the towels, and he checks the lock on the door (again) (and again) (it’s sturdy, but he checks it again). And he looks at the mirror.

The trunk that the Loyalists had planted for him had been full of weapons. These had been precious. They were very _good_ weapons, especially the sword, and Corvo is faintly aware that later he will have freedom to marvel at the craftsmanship and go down and thank the man who made them; but all he had cared about at the time was the comfort they brought to his hands, what they meant, what they could do.

They were and are excellent weapons. They mean safety. They mean death for other men; but he can’t let his brain run that far ahead, not yet.

The trunk had been full of weapons. And food, which he’d barely touched. A vial of some blue elixir, which he’d drunk, and brandy, which he hadn’t. And _clothes_.

He’d found the warmest and most practical and put them on immediately. They were made for the man he was six months ago, and don’t quite fit; it’s not that bad, he’s probably the only one who would notice, but things hang disturbingly _loose_. And he looks in the mirror and notes the way the sleeves are big in the shoulders and the belt’s pulled a notch too tight, and –

He looks like a wirework frame of himself, a copy, trying to fit into the man he was before.

His hair is long; he’s always kept it long, but now it’s ragged. His face has lost all softness. His eyes are –

Hollow.

Animal.

Empty.

And there is a half-healed half-scarred burn mark down the side of his face, stark and obvious even under all the grime.

Corvo does not undress.

He knows that there will be many, many scars under the loose-fitting clothes. It’s not a surprise. He knows his body very well after these months and he knows each one, intimately. There are regular, evenly-spaced burn marks tracking up his arms, his chest, the rest of him; there are cuts that healed white against his skin; there are tiny scars around his wrists and ankles from the rub of restraints; there are whip-marks and small pinched scars down his back that he’s only felt, not seen (he can see them now if he wants, twist in front of the mirror), precisely over his spine, the legacy of electrical wires –

(If he closes his eyes he will not see the cell all around him. He will see the torture chamber).

Corvo’s throat works, and he turns away, and he unlocks the door and leans out. “Cecelia,” he calls (and it startles and will continue to startle him how much of a rasp his voice is; it startles him that in the wake of all the information and everything else that’s been thrown at him, he still remembers this woman’s name), “can you bring an extra towel? I want to – I need to cover up the mirror.”

It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken in months that does not contain the words “stop,” “no,” “please,” or “Emily.”

The red-haired servant scurries up after only moments bearing several towels (they are white; he tries to tell her that they will not _stay_ white, but she mumbles something toward his toes about that being her job to clean, don’t worry). She asks if there’s anything else he needs ( _no_ ). She asks him to call if there ever is anything else he needs ( _yes, I will, please don’t listen in_ ). And then Corvo’s alone again, and he drapes one of the towels over the mirror.

It’s not that he’s afraid of seeing his scars. Not exactly. He’s already seen most of them. It’s that he’s afraid of seeing him in his _entirety_ , head to toe, see everything that he’s become and everything he’s lost.

Corvo locks the door. Checks it. Considers. Drags a chair over and hooks it under the knob, just in case. Paces on instinct, gets to twelve steps and hits the wall, glares at it like it’s done him personal wrong (this room is _shorter_ than his cell; none of this bears thinking about). He gives himself a shake and makes himself finally, finally unpack all the weapons from his pockets and his clothing. The crossbow goes beside the sink. The sword goes within easy reach, propped against the side of the tub. He stares at it.

(He’s being ridiculous)

(He _can’t stop_ )

He’s alone, Corvo reminds himself fiercely. He’s _alone_. Out. Safe for the first time since – safe for the first time in months. The door is shut and no one will come in. Nothing is _coming for him_. And as long as he’s here no one will _expect_ anything of him, he doesn’t have to worry, there will be no pain or anticipation of pain, he can stop watching his back, he can _stop_ –

He turns on the water. Hot. All the way. It will take something of that sort to scald the exhaustion from him. He can already tell that he’ll have to empty and refill the tub a few times, let the slurry of filth and not a little bit of dried blood swirl down into the drain. It will take him a long time to get clean. He will be here, alone, safe, for a long while.

He will be here for as long as he wants.

There is water running out of the tap.

There is steam, rising from the water, enveloping and soft and soothing, and the heat leeches into his bones.

These are such a simple things.

Corvo sits on the floor by the tub as he waits for it to fill, still clothed, legs drawn up and arms looped around his knees, bent forward. All the stiffness and watchfulness draining out of his frame. And it takes him a long time to realize that the shaking of his shoulders has nothing to do with exhaustion or with fear. And it takes him a long, long time to realize that the sound of blessedly hot water filling the tub is not the only sound of falling water in the room.


End file.
